It was an understatement to say that Jimin was well known. Rather than that, it was simply common knowledge; as common as it comes.

Everyone, everyone, with no exception knew Jimin.

Even me, a 16 year old on a scholarship who could argue the hind legs off a donkey. I knew him, and I knew him as the boy that every girl had their eyes on, the boy that was way beyond my reach.

I never, even in my dreams, imagined I would ever even engage in conversation with him. To me, he was the equivalent of an expensive pair of shoes in a shop that you could look at, but never have.

Park Jimin, AKA the boy who would never fall for someone small, adamant and middle-class.

Never?

Never.

 

 

~

 

 

The shrill sound of the bell rang around the classroom, echoing down the lengthy corridors and ricocheting off all of the walls.

As one collective sound, the chairs of students all around me were pushed back, in one, groaning movement. People tugged their bags from the floor and up onto their slumped shoulders; some chatting eagerly to those around them, others in silence.

I was one of them. The quiet ones.

Zipping my bag closed, I swung it onto my shoulder, sweeping my black hair over my back. The weight of books in my back arched my back slightly, causing my spine to ache as it always did. Sighing, I pushed my hands into my back pockets and filed out of the classroom alongside my classmates. I made sure I bowed to the teacher as I left, quietly thanking her for the lesson. She muttered goodbye in reply, politely enough, but I knew she didn't actually like me.

Out in the corridor swarms of students already clogged the halls, and bustling chatter replaced the hushed silence of lessons. From the corner of my eye, I could see five boys from my year, giving each other piggybacks and shouting loudly, pushing past anyone who wasn't swift enough to move from their path. A small smile tweaked the edge of my lips. The boys were fun to be around, although I never spoke to them. Hearing them speak to others merely made me feel more upbeat. Youngjae, in particular, was one of the boys in the group who sat beside me in History. He was gorgeous, and his voice couldn't compare to that of an angel's; it was too lulling. However, like with the majority of the people I sat beside in lessons, I didn't speak to him. The one time we had engaged in conversation, he had asked to borrow a pen, which I all too willingly handed him.

It was safe to say that I was a closed person. There were only a few people in school I spoke to. Either I kept quiet because I was on a scholarship, or because I was part of the Social Care Group- hardly worth recognition from those students who would grow to inherit a quarter or Seoul. Even I didn't know why I didn't speak, although I had a feeling it was something to do with the way everyone in the prestigious school seemed to be above me, through a glass ceiling that I couldn't break.

I made my way to the cafeteria- it was break, and I met my friends there, on a certain table.

Inside the cafeteria it was alive with raucous noise. Students sat everywhere at tables, talking ten to the dozen and eating. It was obvious to even the stupidest people that people sat in certain groups and didn't speak to each other. Those on a table stayed on their table, and didn't interact with those around them.

I stepped through the students, dodging boys running about wildly, and girls skipping up to one another to hug and delve into great detail about the look a boy had just shot in their direction. My table, was right next to the window, looking out across the school field. Behind the grass, a few modern school buildings hid most of the skyline of Seoul. If you strained your eyes you could just about see the tips of little skyscrapers and suchlike.

"Yahhh Isabelle!" My attention was captivated by a voice calling my name. My eyes instantly flitted to the direction of the slightly husking tone, belonging to a boy. Min Yoongi.

He was sat at my table, in the seat beside the one I usually sat in. I held back a small smile; Yoongi was one of the popular boys, but he confronted me once in Chemistry and since then a friendship had blooomed. However, I wasn't expecting to see him at the table I shared with my more subdued friends.

Pulling back a chair, I sat down, shifting my weight to meet Yoongi's eyes. They twinkled with a familiar smirk, and his dyed silver hair fell about his face.

"What are you here for a*shole?" I asked, throwing him a careless smile at my own words.

Yoongi laughed with me, his deep husky laugh lighting up his face. "Nice to see you too. You should know I'm sacrificing my social status for you."

I winced slightly at the subject of status, but swept it from my face before he could notice.

"I never made you come over here, and if you don't like my 'status' then you may as well end this friendship." My words were biting, but he knew full well that it was just my way.

Yoongi slumped back in his chair, letting his legs fall wide and stretched. His left foot nudged my own, which I gently kicked in return.

"I wanted to see you," Yoongi muttered, meeting my eyes in a way that irritated me yet caused me to smile uncontrollably. The others at the table, Amber, Mina, Chanmi to name a few, faded into insignificance.

I clicked my tongue at him, rolling my eyes. His foot tapped my own again, which I returned with another jab. But before I could kick again, he lifted his foot and brought it down on mine before I could stop him.

Glaring, I moved my gaze from our feet to his smirking face.

"Wanted to see me because?"

Yoongi's smirk widened at my annoyance, lifting his foot from mine and dodging a kick I sent him.

"Because you're my friend. Why else?"

I rolled eyes again, running a hand through the hair that cascaded from over my shoulders and down my torso. Nibbling on my lip, I pondered a reply.

"You are my friend, but your friends are going to disown you if you carry on talking to me."

Yoongi's brow creased slightly at my words. Both he and I knew that our friendship wasn't common or exactly acceptable. His friendship group of seven, rowdy, popular boys didn't even acknowledge my existence.

"I don't care. You deserve to be here. Just because you don't own a hotel chain to prove it doesn't mean I can't be your friend." He spoke as if the matter was closed.

Sighing, I scuffed my foot on the polished floor. He was right, and I would always appreciate his kindness towards me. Although I could continue arguing, I stopped myself; wrapping my arms around my body as I trained my gaze on the floor.

"Thank you." I murmured, my lips barely moving. I stared at my feet, taking a sudden interest in my Converse.

"Don't mention it." Yoongi whispered in reply, leaning forwards in his seat. The husky tone of his voice was comforting, a reminder that society wasn't always as fixed as legends told.

 

 

~

 

 

By the end of the day I was fatigued. My brain felt fuzzy and I had a headache. My matter wasn't helped by the fact I had two essays set in two consecutive lessons. I assured myself I would do them later; at the time being I just wanted to get home and crash.

It was nice to get outside, the cool air biting at my skin in a refreshing way. The gentle breeze picked up  strands of my hair and tossed them about my face, reminding me of the strawberry scent of my shampoo. I followed the general hubbub of students as they left the school grounds, pushing my earphones into my ears to ignore everyone. A habit of mine was to do this, to save myself the conversations I incidentally became a part off.

Home for me was only a ten minute walk away. Mom bought an apartment for a cheap price, after figuring out that buying was more cost effective than renting. Although it was small and cramped, we made do- and we had decorated it so it felt like home. It wasn't the mansions that my classmates went home to every night, but it was home to me and it was one of the only places I felt happy.

 

~

 

"I'm home." I called into the hallway, sliding off my shoes and shutting the door behind me. 

Slipping my feet into my woollen slippers, it was only a matter of time before my mom responded.

"How was school?" She came from the kitchen, and she smelt of her own delicious cooking. I went to hug her, giving her a bright kiss on the cheek. Her day job was cleaning, but she ran her own business on the side- a small but popular food stall tucked away on a well known side street.

"Good," I mused, glancing at myself instinctively in the mirror, comforted when the same face stared back.

"That's good. I have to go set up in a bit, but I could use some help finishing the beef and vegetable noodles." That was mom's subtle hint to help her, and I obliged all too willingly. She worked so incredibly hard for me to attend the school that I did; I had to repay her in some way. 

Nodding in reply, I followed her to the kitchen.

Several pots stood ready to be taken outside to the street. Only a few were left on the stove, alongside a kettle boiling water for tea. Boxes of rice cakes and kimchi and the like stacked up beside the other foods. It was a feast that made my stomach grumble.

Mom had gone to the stove, she was stirring pots as if it was second nature, which it most likely was. I stepped up behind her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She smiled at me gratefully.

"You're an amazing cook mom." I murmured, hugging her hard. Dad had left when I was three, and I hadn't heard from him since. It was me and mom against the world, and we had coped just fine.

"Thank you Bella, and I have the next Einstein as a daughter." She replied, wrapping an arm round my waist and squeezing slightly.

"I'm going down now. Make sure you get some rest. I don't want you to be tired for school tomorrow." Assembling all her containers, plates and chopsticks balanced on top, mom released my waist and made her way to the door.

I followed, opening the door wide and out into the corridor. She threw me a smile, which I returned.

"I'll be down in an hour, I'll write one essay and I'll come down." 

"Ok my Bella- make sure to work hard." Mom's voice was low and croaky, from lack of sleep, yet still possessing the sweet undertones I always recognised. A smile tweaked my lips at her name for me. Bella, Italian for beautiful. She had called me that since I was a baby. When she was pregnant with me she forced herself to become fluent in the language, and never gave it up. Even now she could strike up a conversation in unfaltering Italian.

I watched her down the stairs, making sure she didn't drop anything. Once she was out of sight I turned and headed back inside. Now was the time I sat and wrote my essays, at the kitchen table we had owned since dad left.